


quiet when i'm coming home and i'm on my own

by spectralarchers



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Gen, Loneliness, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 12:14:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectralarchers/pseuds/spectralarchers
Summary: Clint gets home from a day at work. Well. Home. His appartment isn't exactly what he'd call a home.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 34





	quiet when i'm coming home and i'm on my own

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I needed to express some things going on inside that I had to deal with, and projecting onto Clint is always a good option when it comes to dealing with things.

The keys jingle against the wall when he hangs them onto their hanger. The coat makes it to the floor, wet and dirty from the walk back home in the rain. The duffel bag hits the floor with a heavy thud, as he eases the strap off his shoulder.

He avoids looking at the mirror on the wall as he sits down on the little stool in the hallway with a huff. Bending forward, he undoes the laces of his boots with nimble fingers, a movement he's done time and time and time again. Toeing out of the boots, he pushes them away under the stool, while he sits there, back against the wall and looking out onto the open living room.

There's piles of papers and bills and newspaper clippings and manila folders with the SHIELD logo on the dinner table, and there's a half emptied laundry basket sitting on the couch, a t-shirt hanging out over the edge of it.

There's a pile of dirty plates on the table as well, and an empty water pitcher next to it. He's been using the same fork for three days straight, picking it up from the highest dirty plate to use on another one where he's eating the heated up food from the SHIELD cafeteria.

He sits there for a couple of seconds, looking into the empty apartment. He's just come from an eight hour desk shift. He's been filing the one paperwork after the other, mingling in useless conversation with the SHIELD interns at the cafeteria, asking them how their day is going, asking what they're doing this weekend.

His eyes go to the opposite wall where a picture of Barney hangs framed, under a picture of his mother and the two of them.

Clint had told them he was going home to relax this weekend. Watch television, catch up on some of those shows he hasn't been able to catch because he was away for 96 hours at the beginning of the week.

If he's being honest with himself, he's lying to himself. His life ends when he gets home. There is only the internal countdown to when he's needed again. When he needs to be back at his desk or back in Fury's office. He hasn't even gone grocery shopping on the way home, he brought back leftovers from lunch he can heat up.

The plate he'll pull from the cupboard will end up on the pile he's started on the dinner table. He shuffles for a bit, adjusting the dog tags hanging from his neck. The brown paper bag containing his would be dinner is in the duffel bag, and he should put it in the fridge.

Instead of moving, though, he just sits there. Looking at all his possessions. What good are those? He only needs a bed and a shower. Maybe somewhere to put his clothes. Just so he can get time to pass between the time he leaves the office and the time he goes back. He has no friends to go hang out with. He has no parents to call.

He has plenty of chores to do, but he just sits there. On the stool in the hall. His hair is still wet and sticking to his face from the rain. He's not even hungry, if he's being honest.

Coulson had practically kicked him out of his desk space. Told him that “It's Friday, Barton! Don't you have a bunch of friends you need to entertain, let off some steam with?” and shoved him out, turning off the lights in the office and locking it behind him.

If it had been up to Clint, he'd have stayed in that cubicle until his eyes couldn't stay open anymore. That, or going back out on another mission. He only feels alive when he's got something to do. When he's got a job to do.

This?

Sitting at home, waiting for time to pass? This isn't life. His life ends when he gets home.

It's 7 pm on a Friday evening in Bed Stuy, and one of the world's sharpest assassins is sitting on an IKEA stool in his entrance hall wondering when it'll be 6 am Monday again.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> There's a little happier ending hidden in the comments which I wrote the day after when I was feeling better <3


End file.
